


Reforging

by Solanaceae



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Gen, family fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-17
Updated: 2013-08-17
Packaged: 2017-12-23 20:00:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,362
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/930519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Solanaceae/pseuds/Solanaceae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Maedhros recovers after Thangorodrim.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reforging

**Author's Note:**

> Originally written for the 30 Days of Headcanon meme on tumblr.

Maedhros learned to use a sword again, and it was like trying to relearn how to walk — something he knew he could do (or had been able to do, once), something that had always been instinctual, natural. But the sword was too heavy, his movements clumsy and unbalanced, and he couldn't wield it left-handed with anything even near the skill he had had before. He was too weak, still, and it was too hard, and the way he fought before he was broken was too deeply ingrained to truly dispel, as was the way he did everything else. It was a struggle to eat, to get  _dressed_  — something even the smallest child could do but that he, eldest of the house of Fëanor, spent painful hours attempting. But he wouldn't (couldn't) let anyone help, though it would speed up the process considerably and eliminate the need for his brothers to pretend to not notice his crooked robes, his half-buttoned tunic, the ripped cloth where he had finally lost his temper.

(Fingon had helped him, at the beginning, but even he had been pushed away, because Maedhros did not need pity or help or  _anything_  except the strength to do it on his own — and that was the one thing he lacked)

He was trying to get used to being like this, being a cripple, and it was hard to even think the word but it was the truth and he had to live with that truth, so he whispered the word to himself as he battered clumsily at straw-stuffed dummies with a wooden sword, spitting it out —  _cripple, cripple, cripple_  — with every blow. He tried to pretend that his own weakness didn't hurt, that he didn't even want to rise most mornings and face his own uselessness.

Part of him (most of him) still thought that dying had been the better option — not that he was really given a choice, in the end. But he saw how his brothers and followers and all the rest of the Noldor continued the long fight against Morgoth, and knew:  _It is not for me to give up now and let them find their way on their own. I must do what I can, I owe it to them all—_

And the Oath, after all, did not allow for giving up.

In the end, it wasn't Fingon who helped him the most on the road to recovery, and neither could he do it himself, no matter what he pretended. No, it was his brothers that did the most, and that was only right. The sons of Fëanor stood by each other, and even if part of him raged against them — _they never came, they left me at Morgoth's mercy for years and years, too craven to attempt a rescue_ — he could never hate them, because they were bound together by sin and blood and shared Oath, but also days in gold and silver light, hunting and playing before the darkness fell, and bandaged scrapes, and stories read aloud as sleepy eyes closed.

Some things, in the end, could not be broken.

He never asked who had tried to convince the others to rescue him, and who had decided to condemn him, because in the end it had been  _Maglor's_ choice (the choice of the eldest, and what would he have done if it was another brother taken?), and the right choice. But there was always that question.

Maglor had wept into his shoulder when he returned, choking out broken apologies and falling to his knees in front of everyone, clasping Maedhros' hands and begging for forgiveness (and a small, hard part of him had been glad that Maglor, too, had suffered, but he had shoved that down and raised his brother up, wondering what he had become, and hating himself).

The others never spoke of their choices to leave him to Morgoth's mercy, only did their best to help him rise again.

It was Celegorm who offered to spar with him, teach him to fight again with his weakened body and useless left hand. He did not truly wish to relearn how to fight, and he never wanted to be in battle again — but he had to protect his people, and he had to fulfill his Oath, and to do that, he needed to be able to use a sword.

His little brother showed no mercy, and Maedhros expected none. He didn't need easy lessons, and he didn't need pity. Every bruise, every cut, every bone-deep ache after — they were lessons that he needed, and a fitting reward for continuing to live. Celegorm did what he had to do to make his brother strong again.

One day, after a frustratingly difficult day of sparring in a week of little to no improvement, he returned to his tent to find Curufin there, waiting for him with a wrapped bundle in his hands and no expression in the grey eyes so like their father's. Maedhros stared tiredly at him for a few long seconds, wondering why he was just  _standing_  there.

_And what choice did you make, Curvo?_

"Here. It's for you," Curufin said without preamble as he placed the bundle into Maedhros' hand with enough care to tell him that whatever was in there, it was something the fifth son had made with his own hands.

He unwrapped it, balancing it precariously on what was left of his right arm and fumbling at the cloth with his left hand. Curufin didn't offer to help, even when the bundle almost fell, though Maedhros did catch the slight, worried tightening at the corners of Curufin's mouth before the elder brother managed to catch it.

The blue sheen of steen made him pause, then toss the cloth aside. His hand closed around the hilt as he lifted the sword, watched the light of the setting sun flash blood-red from it, reminding him of torchlight long ago. The hilt, incised with the star of the House of Fëanor, fit perfectly in his hand, and it was the first time he'd felt comfortable holding a sword in his left hand — and even if it wasn't as much an extension of his arm right now as his old sword had been, he knew immediately that it could be, in time.

"Thank you," he said with honest sincerity, tilting the blade back and forth, feeling the way it balanced perfectly, the way it seemed almost alive under his fingers. "It is... beautiful." And it was, in a certain, deadly way — all tempered shine and razor edge, keen as a star and bright as flame.

He brought it to Celegorm the next day, and his little brother wordlessly helped him into his armor. They sparred with live steel that day, the clash of blades painful and musical, and for a few moments Maedhros almost felt whole again — and then his sword went flying as Celegorm disarmed him with a flick of his wrist, leaving a stinging welt across the back of his gloved hand.

_Pick it up. Keep going. That's all you have to do._

And life went on. Some days, he collapsed in his tent at night, every muscle aching, hating himself for how weak he was, angry at Celegorm for trying to fix him and Maglor for letting this happen to him and the others for believing in him — and most of all, Fingon for saving his life. But gradually, there was a change, and one day he woke up and dressed himself without (much) fumbling at his buttons — buttons that had been re-sewn by Caranthir so he could do it more easily — and that small accomplishment pleased him so much he spent the rest of the morning smiling brightly at befuddled soldiers as he passed their tents.

And one day he disarmed Celegorm halfway through their sparring match, and the next day he pinned his little brother to the ground, their swords trapped between their bodies, both of them more than a little bit shocked.

"You're getting better," Celegorm gasped, trying and failing to look dignified while trapped under the taller elf.

And Maedhros laughed, and stood, and helped his brother up.

 


End file.
